


on candy striped legs

by scribacchina



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Dd/lb, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Frottage, Graphic Descriptions of Physical Abuse, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Illness, Oral Sex, Other, Stalking, Unhappy Ending, infantilization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-05 23:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16820404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribacchina/pseuds/scribacchina
Summary: “This isn't your house,” Mr Graves said. Credence snorted. The situation could have been comical, hadn't it been so terrifying. “I've brought you somewhere else. Somewhere safe.”Credence accepts the wrong ride home. Percival just wants to help.





	1. the spider man comes

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. This is an extremely dark story, and one I realize isn't for everyone's enjoyment. I have been planning to write this for such a long time, and I'd like to thank Bee and Dani for encouraging me to go through with this. 
> 
> Further warnings: Credence is eighteen, but there are still some very explicit scenes later on, where it is implied he isn't capable of giving consent. I will put another warning when the time comes. This chapter is, however, completely sfw. It's just an introduction, and the next ones (if, I decide to continue writing) will be longer. 
> 
> Lastly, I'd like to thank anyone who might take time out of their day to read this. Thank you.

Credence watched as the back of the bus disappeared down the street. Flickers of snow rained on his shoulders, slipping inside the collar of his jersey. 

His legs ached from running, vanely trying to catch up with it. Credence looked at the sky, which was quickly getting darker, and set to walking. He was a good forty five minutes away from home, and his shoes didn't hold well on the gravel, and his backpack swung heavier than he thought possible. 

Today had been uneventful. He'd struggled through his classes like a seagull covered in tar; wildly confused and with a beginning of arrhythmia. The only notable event - and what eventually caused him to be late - had been the chat he'd made during lunch. 

Credence usually sat alone, picking at whatever the small paycheck Ma gave him at the beginning of every week had gotten him from the vending machine. Today it was a Twix, with nothing to drink. He'd carefully taken out one, and wrapped the other back into the package, planned on keeping it for tomorrow. 

The girl had politely cleared her throat. It was a soft sound, but it made Credence jolt all the same. “Can I sit here?” She’d said, accent peeking through. Credence recognized her as the new exchange student, from France. Couldn't bring himself to remember her name. 

“Yeah,” he'd said, waiting a little too much, and scuttled to the side. She sat next to him, placing her bag to the feet of the bench. She took out a Tupperware, smiled and asked if he'd wanted some. That was when Credence realized he'd been staring.

“Oh, no. It's ok.” After a second, “I'm Credence,” he burst out. She nodded, chewing on a mouthful of her quiche. 

“I know, we have chem together. Your hair looks funny.” Credence reeled back, but her expression was genuine. He patted at his bowl cut, and looked over at hers. Her hair was dark, and styled in a messy ponytail. It all stuck up in strands, trembling as she moved. 

“You too, your, your hair. It's nice,” he'd said. “Do you want a Twix?” 

Credence wasn't big on meeting new people, but Nagini seemed innocuous enough. He decided, as they split their lunch, that he wanted to become best friends with her. She seemed inclined to the idea, Credence thought.

They'd made arrangements to eat together again, tomorrow. That promise, however fickle, snuck its way into Credence's chest. He'd been up in the clouds for the rest of the day, and had waited behind to see Nagini out of school. She'd waved him goodbye from Ms Goldstein's car, and Credence had felt happy. 

But now he was out, in the shivering cold, a snowstorm fast approaching. And the promise of friendship didn't stand long against the certainty of Ma’s rules. He should have been punctual, so as to watch over little Modesty while she and Chastity cleaned the Church. 

The welts on his forearms had begun to heal. They'd smoothed down, shifting from a flashing red, to blue, to a pale yellow. Still, they felt tender, and ached to touch. Ma wouldn't strike there and risk injuring him too badly. His back, on the other hand, was mostly good. 

Credence heard the car approach, and listened to the crunch of ice beneath its weight. It stopped a few meters ahead of him, window already rolled down. Credence kept walking. 

It was an old, dusty red Ford pickup. It looked like it had seen better times. The man driving it was just as unassuming and vaguely ruffled. 

“Hi,” the stranger said. Credence stopped to look at him, and recognized the way he sniffled and adjusted his glasses. 

He'd seen the man on Sundays, a couple weeks in a row. Would always sit in the back, and be the first to walk out. Credence knew what he looked like, because he never refused the pamphlets he and Chastity handed out after mass was over. He had a kind smile. 

“Hello,” Credence said. The warmth radiating off of the car made him shiver: the wind had picked up, mean and harsh. Credence wanted to stick his head into the window’s opening and crawl inside like a big, fat worm. 

“You're the Barebone kid, right?” He was gripping onto the steering wheel, fingers tapping at it, following a silent rythm. Credence nodded, shoving his own, freezing hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I'm Graves. Percival Graves. I've been to your Church, few times.” 

“I remember,” Credence said, shuffling his feet. He was late. “Yeah, Mr Graves.” 

“Well, ah. Do you want a ride?” He seemed to reel back at his own question. Credence turned to the road ahead of him. Another two miles, tops. He could do it in, maybe, twenty five minutes. If he ran the whole way.

And, it wouldn't really matter. He'd still be late. There was no avoiding it, Credence knew. 

Might as well get comfortable in the meantime. “Yes, please,” he said, already opening the door. The seat was comfortable, worn out by years of use. The heaters went without a hitch, though, and Mr Graves was quick to roll up the window. Credence fastened the seatbelt, then looked over at Graves. 

“Thank you.” Mr Graves shook his head, mumbling something under his breath. Credence assumed Graves knew where he lived. So, he went to enjoy the ride, forcing himself not to think of home, and what awaited for him there. 

It was a bumpy ride, as the wheels caught on the many cracks in the asphalt. It gave the habitacle a rocking, gentle motion, back and forth, up and down. Credence’s head began to loll in turn with the car, eyes rolling closed. 

Credence would occasionally blink, catching strips of what was running by. The gas station with its empty parking lot. The Kowalski's home. The Church. Trees, trees, trees. Unending rows of snow saddled pines, black logs sticking out of the ground like the ankles of giants. 

Woods. Credence didn't live near the woods. As a matter of fact, his block was in the opposite direction. Credence blinked again, and a sign informed him, in bright, blocky letters, they were now on hunting grounds. 

The drowsiness slowly slipped away, dripping out of Credence like water from a leaking faucet. Dirty, rust-tasting water. His stomach felt heavy with it, and Credence sat up from his slouch. The pick up came to a stop, engine burping and dying. In front of it, was a moderately large wooden cabin. 

“This isn't your house,” Mr Graves said. Credence snorted. The situation could have been comical, hadn't it been so terrifying. “I've brought you somewhere else. Somewhere safe.” 

Credence considered climbing out through the window. The glass looked sturdy, and the skin over his knuckles was paper thin. The word rang between Credence's temples. Safe. He wasn't safe. 

“I know what you're thinking. Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you,” still, Mr Graves’ expression remained one of calm serenity. Credence must have been glaring at him, bloodshot eyes and running nose. Christ, but he was ridiculous. 

“I want to help you, Credence,” he continued, voice growing lower. Mr Graves had a nice voice, Credence thought, it was a pleasant one to hear before you die. “I want to make you feel better.” 

“Please bring me home,” Credence managed to say, choked out, throat tightened by the terror. He yanked at the door handle, but of course it wouldn't budge. “Please, I won't tell. I won't tell anyone.” 

“Credence,” Mr Graves sighed. He acted as if Credence was a stubborn toddler, throwing a fit. “We both know that wouldn't be helping you.” 

“I know what your mother does to you,” Mr Graves said. It'd have felt better, Credence thought, if he'd just punched his guts backwards. Again, Credence pulled on the handle, hearing it clicking without giving. “I know that she's hurt you.” 

“I don't wanna be here,” Credence pressed his hands against the door, pushing with all his strength. “I have to go home, I'm late and I have to go home, my mom will be worried. Please.” 

Mr Graves tugged on Credence's arm. His grasp was firm, but not painful. He pulled Credence back, and closer. “It's okay, it's okay. I know. Sh sh,” Credence struggled weakly against him. Mr Graves was solid, and gave off heat. He smelled clean, of aftershave and a little whiff of wet wood. He didn't smell like a killer. 

“I have to go,” Credence mouthed, head snug in the crook of Graves’ neck. “I want to go.” 

“I know you're scared. I'm scared too,” Graves spoke while simultaneously avoiding Credence's - admittedly not very efficient - attacks. “It's gonna be okay, I promise you.” 

Promise. Credence thought of the half eaten Twix at the bottom of his backpack, and kicked his legs out with all he had. He'd made a promise. He was still kicking when Graves covered his mouth and nose. Credence felt the dampness of the cloth, before breathing in the chloroform. 

“Sh sh sh. That's okay. That's alright, yeah.” Graves voice filled all the space inside Credence's head. His body the only present thing that mattered. Credence couldn't find a reason to try and leave.

He let go. And then he was away.


	2. i won't let the boogeyman come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ ME (PLEASE?): 
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who left kudos and commented on the previous chapter. I wouldn't have been able to go as far as to write another without your support! 
> 
> Now for the warnings. While this chapter is still entirely sfw, it does contain some heavy themes. If you're interested in the specifics of what happens, look into the end notes. Please keep in mind this fic is dark in nature. 
> 
> (Btw, if you can guess where the title of this chapter is from, you get a gold star.)

Mornings at the Church begin early. 

Credence's alarm goes off at half past five, but by that time he has to have washed himself, and remade the bed already. He moves quietly through the one room they share, listening to Chastity straighten her duvet.

Breakfast usually consists of something that can be eaten fast. Nothing sugary. Nothing too expensive, either. Credence often resorts to fiber cereals; the ones with smiling, sickly thin ladies plastered on them.

Modesty is allowed to wake up a little later, paddling down the stairs with her jaw hanging open in a long, continuous yawn. 

Not much talking happens. At the end of it, depending on which day it is, Ma gives them separate instructions. During the week, she has them running to catch the bus - which is always late. On Saturdays and Sundays, they prepare for mass. 

Credence dreads the moment his eyes crack open, first lights slipping through the window. Sleep is blissful, but it lasts for a second. Every night, he lies down and prays to _God, please, please let me sleep for a little less than forever_. _Just a small forever is enough_ , Credence thinks. 

When he blinks awake, Credence reaches for his clock. He finds the top of the nightstand is bare, safe for a lamp. It's one of those cut outs, that throw shadowy figures on the walls. In this case: bunny rabbits, hopping and chasing each other in the grass. 

Credence looks up at the ceiling. It's covered with glow-in-the-dark stars. Pale yellow against blue, in a mock, child like depiction of the night sky. He stares at them for a while, trying to count them in his tired stupor. He's particularly exhausted today. 

Ma won't be happy. 

The sheets are nicely tucked, and the pillow soft as a cloud. Credence digs his face into the fabric, and fills his lungs with it. Smells flowery, but not artificial. Where did Ma buy this detergent? 

It takes Credence a few moments to figure out, this isn't his bedroom. The handcuffs give it away, really. 

They keep his wrist snug together. The metal is painted a light blue, padded on the inner side. Credence raises his hands, struggling to get into a sit. His head spins. His stomach feels sore. This isn't his bedroom. 

He takes in the whole place. It's decorated with dozens of plushies: ponies, teddy bears, a few frogs. There's a bookshelf, directly in front of the bed, filled to the brim with books. Credence is too far to read any of their spines. 

To the side, the room shifts; a small, wooden table, and a large TV screen that's resting on a cart. The remote sits by the chair, as if daring Credence to come over. 

Credence shuts his eyes. He thinks back. He sees himself in the Ford Pickup. Mr Graves’ car. He sees Mr Graves, with his unassuming face. He sees the threes, so many of them, all around. 

The knowledge doesn't hit him as much as slowly drips onto him, like a coat of viscous honey. 

He's been kidnapped. 

Sounds above him. Steps. Credence looks back at the ceiling, as if the glowing stars might help him. The steps stop for a second, then getting louder. _Closer_. Credence shuffles until he's almost completely submerged. He keeps his eyes closed, forcing himself to breathe evenly, despite the urge he has to tear his ribs out and scream. 

Clicking, turning of machinery. A door. A door’s lock. Credence spies frantically around; there is no door near the bed. It must be around the corner, where the TV is. Credence has his back to it, bites his tongue hard enough to feel the blood pool inside his mouth. 

The door creaks open. The door closes. Steps, steps, steps. Credence is gnawing on a knuckle now, too scared to care about pretend. 

“Credence,” Mr Graves says, “Good morning.” 

He grips Credence's shoulders, gentle, firm, manuvers him around. He's facing Mr Graves now, but he won't blink. 

If he sees the monster, then it's over. It can't hurt him unless he acknowledges it. 

“Did you sleep well? I came to check a few times, and you were still asleep. Did you have good dreams?” 

Just the mental image of Mr Graves watching him while he can't act, can't even speak - it drives a sad sound out of Credence, air rushing past his lips. 

Mr Graves’ fingers find his eyes. Credence jumps, but they only brush, not digging, massaging the sides of his nose, then his temples. 

“I know, this must be hard to understand. You must think I'm some sort of maniac,” Mr Graves says. He chuckles, low. Credence feels the mattress give in to another weight. “I mean no harm, I swear.” 

Credence looks. He's expecting a knife, or a needle, or a machete. Anything that might confirm his fears.

Mr Graves’ moustache does this weird, little dance when he smiles. Wobbles from side to side, before settling. He's wearing a big sweater, green, and the glasses sit crooked on his nose. “Well, hello there,” he coos. 

“Why -- ” Credence's throat burns. He coughs until he regains feel in it. “Why me?” 

Mr Graves is still holding Credence’s face. He strokes his cheekbones, “There are a lot of bad people out there,” he says. “Your mother is one of them. These people, they -- they _ruin_ everyone and everything else.” 

He frowns, eyebrows furrowing together like angry caterpillars. “And then, there's good people. I'm not talking ‘bout, ordinary people, like myself. I'm talking good, _good people_. The ones who save lives." 

Credence lets him cradle his head, lets him caress through his hair. He considers slamming his cuffed wrists against the side of Mr Graves’ face, smash his jaw to bits. 

“And often, really good people suffer and sacrifice themselves for others, and get nothing in return, and then suffer some more before dying and _rotting_. That seem fair to you?” 

It's a rhetorical question. Credence's participation in the argument isn't needed. 

“You are,” Mr Graves inhales, slow, trying to calm down. His pupils drill holes into Credence's, “You are a very special, _very good_ person.” The compliment tickles Credence's ego in a twisted, sick Pavlovian response. Any kind of attention is welcomed. 

“I couldn't just, stand there, while the world did its best to destroy you. It's not even just your mother, right, it's -- it's, the teachers, they're assignments that don't make sense, all those classes. And the rest of ‘em, always talking and talking and throwing _shit_ at you.”

Mr Graves raises his voice. Credence manages to pull out of his grip, thumbling back against the pillows. Mr Graves stares at him, then at his hands, dumbfounded. He adjusts his glasses, sniffles. He looks embarrassed. 

“Sorry. I don't wanna scare you. I wanna help you.” 

Pause. The room is really quiet for a moment. Credence hugs his knees to his chest, making himself the smaller he can be. 

“I know what's it like when you're alone,” Mr Graves says. He's glaring off into space, somewhere to the left of Credence's head. “I know how people work. What they say. What they do. The promises they break. All the time, every time, until you're alone again.” 

He stands up, takes the covers off. Credence clings to a hem, but it's yanked out of his grasp. “That's why, I brought you here. Where you can be safe, and never ever alone.” 

Credence coughs once more, twice. Bends and pukes all over Mr Graves’s legs. 

Mr Graves brings Credence to the kitchen. He presents him with: chocolate chip cookies. Doughnuts, with all kind of toppings and rainbow sprinkles. Pieces of buttered toast, and warm milk. The cereal boxes have cartoons on them, no hint at fibers anywhere on the things. 

“I wasn't sure what your preferences were, so,” Mr Graves shrugs, hands shoved into the pants of his - clean - jeans. Credence would like to be stoic and refuse but his stomach is kicking and growling, and he's pretty sure there's drool at the side of his mouth. 

Eating while cuffed isn't as hard as he'd thought. Credence swallows anything in reach, laps up what drips down his chin. Mr Graves’ walks out carrying the dirty sheets -- stinking with Credence's bile, the stench of his terro -- and fetches a new set. 

Mr Graves doesn't seem the least bit upset. Right after, he'd stroked Credence's back and slowly coerced him into the bathroom. Washed his face and the few strands of hair that got caught in the eruption. Thankfully, Credence hadn't needed a change of clothes. 

His clothes, Credence remembers. They're gone. He's been wearing an awfully comfortable superman pajama, “S” logo and all. 

Credence's hunger spares the cookies, and little else. He huffs out a burp, and slumps into his chair. Mr Graves is still off in the bedroom, tucking in the sheets. Now, with some understanding of his surroundings, Credence can sort of navigate the area.

The bedroom and the, _ah_ , playroom are connected. There's more games, that Credence hadn't noticed at first glance - tabletops, some Nintendo cartridge. 

The bathroom is just to the side of it; he got to study it briefly, but with his head half sunk into the sink Credence managed to just get a glimpse of the shower and the smooth, white tiles. 

The kitchen, in front of the play room. It’s evidently well furnished, stacked with food. There's a small stove, a fridge, and a table with two chairs. From the angle Credence sits, he could be able to still watch TV. 

Credence turns. Just behind him, at the back of the kitchen: a door. It's _the_ door. The one Mr Graves must've carried him through as he was unconscious. The one standing between him and the outside world. The one Mr Graves keeps locked, keys somewhere on him. 

Credence stands. His bare feet make no noise against the floor. He slinks around the corner, and stares at the broad of Mr Graves’ back. If he hit him on the head real strong, would he be able to knock him out for long enough?

And what then? Search through his things, find the keys. And what if he doesn't have keys? What if the door locks automatically? What if there's some complex system to operate? 

The prospect of killing his captor and only way out makes Credence sweat cold. 

“Ah, there you are. Bed is ready, if you feel like laying down. Must feel dizzy -- “

“I wanna go home,” Credence says. “Let me go Mr Graves, please.” He wobbles on his legs, torn between stepping forward or running back to the kitchen. “I need to go, or they'll worry about me.” 

“Someone will notice I'm gone for sure,” he stammers on, encouraged by Mr Graves’ blank expression. He's staring, motionless, holding a stuffed bunny. “And then, then they'll tell the police. And then they'll look for me, and talk about it in the news, and you'll be sent to jail when they find you.” 

Credence’s throat is closing up again. He takes in a shaky breath, “But all that won't happen if you just let me go. I won't tell anyone about this, I swear.” 

Mr Graves looks down, turning the bunny over in his hands. “Credence,” he says, “Do you know how many cases of missing person are reported to the police, on the daily?”

He walks over to the nearest wall. Slaps one fist against it, “These are reinforced. Soundproofed. Not that anyone would've heard anything, this far into the woods.” He brings the bunny closer to his face, “Not even a _peep_.” 

Credence is crying now. He's also _this_ close to pissing himself. “You're lying,” he sobs, “You would've never been able to build all this, on your own, without anyone noticing.” 

Mr Graves smiles. “As I've said, I am quite lonely. And you wouldn't believe the amount of free time I got.” 

Credence cries harder. He hunches in on himself, hugging his arms. _Disappear, disappear_ , he thinks.

“Oh, oh baby. C'mere,” Mr Graves is hugging him. Credence tries to pull away like he's done before, but it's no use: he is confused, head heavy and ears buzzing. “It's okay, that's right. Let it out, let it all out. I know, I know.” 

He's being dragged towards the bed, Credence realizes. Mr Graves him into the covers, and oh, shit, fuck, they do smell even better. Credence bites the lining of it, shreds the seams between his canines. Mr Graves goes to the bookshelf. 

“Would you like a story?” He asks, already picking out a book. 

“I wanna go home,” Credence kicks the covers off, but Mr Graves is quick to neaten them. “I don't _want_ to! No, no, no. I have to go home. Modesty will -- _Ma_ \-- and,” he breaks down, temples hot and snot running down his nose. 

“Alright, I'll bring you something to drink.” Mr Graves says. He places the book next to Credence, and hurries into the kitchen. Credence grabs the stupid thing and hauls it at the floor. With the handcuffs, he manages to send it skimming to the opening of the kitchen. 

Credence feels as if he's about to implode. What is happening? _What is happening?_ His head spins, spins, spins. How long has he been here, how long has Mr Graves hid him here? Why him? _Why him?_

He's not good, Credence thinks, bitter. He's not a good, special person. Mr Graves has it wrong. He's dirty and ugly but as dirt and ugly as he is, he still deserves to live up there, with the real people. 

He does. He does. He's not good. 

“Here we go,” Mr Graves returns. He's holding a tall glass of milk, and something smaller that Credence can't make out. “Drink up, and have a rest. Today has been stressful enough for you.” 

He presses the drink to Credence's mouth. Credence goes to move, but Mr Graves’ palm is fast on the back of his head, keeps him still. Credence takes a sip; the milk is warm, and slides down easy. 

Credence's head immediately gets heavier than a brick. He can't have been awake for longer than two hours, but he's already longing for the gentle lull of drug induced sleep. _A little less than forever_. 

“Take this, it'll help you relax.” The pacifier slips past Credence's loose lips. It's covered in sugar, sticky sweet. Mr Graves kisses his forehead, turns off the lights. 

“Goodnight, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains heavy hints at infantilization. Credence is in a state of panic and emotional distress, and is repeatedly drugged. 
> 
> Thank for having read this far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on the fic,  
> either down here in the comments or on my  
> [tumblr!](http://myheadsamesssogimmetheslash.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> If you managed to read thus far, and enjoyed it, please consider leaving a comment. It is my only source of validation.


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